“You can’t do this. You can’t just magically do something that you haven’t done in 11 years. I’m sorry. Tomorrow night, in the rain, you will fail and fail badly and you will not get the reduction in your insurance rates. I don’t know if it’s your training or your lungs or your injuries caught up with you but you can’t do it. I can’t bear to watch.”
The Carribbean Queen walked alongside me as we strolled through the sub-rural neighborhood.
“I guess, but I haven’t really run a mile all out. But I have to know.”
We climbed the hill as an Audi sped past.
“I’m afraid to run without you. There may be a serial killer preying on female joggers. I won’t run alone, so I have to come to the track tomorrow night. No woman in her right mind should ever run a trail alone. What should be and what is, are two very different things El Norte. You happen to be a steely-eyed cold-blooded, professional killer, I’m never afraid when I’m with you. Your fastest mile this year was 8:26 in cool weather on dry, flat terrain in Manhattan. It’s hopeless.”
The noise from the highway was almost deafening.
“You know, you are a young girl, you are like 22 years old, kid, you should be with someone your own age.”
“I know what you’re saying, but you will need to be sub 1:45 on the first lap, maybe even 3:45 by lap two to have a prayer. If you hit 6:00 by the third, you can go balls out and sprint, but wow, have you even run a four-minute half? I mean like twice this year? I don’t know. Your body is amazing. It should be all mine. No one your age has a body like this. Touch me. Touch me!”
We ran for our lives across the Frogger highway like Death Race 2000.
“I love you. I am madly, passionately, deeply romantically in love with you. I want to marry you and have your children. I want to live in your eerie, ancient mansion at the cliff’s edge. The hell with your stupid running and dieting, your stupid literary critique, the stupid whores in your writer’s workshop and your stupid peacekeeping whining crap. Just make love to me you *hot*, gringo, Yankee, silver fox, American devil! I have needs!”
We walked past the construction jack-hammering. A BMW sped past at 78 in the 25 zone.
“I agree with with what you said. But I have to see what happens on the controlled environment of a running track. I’m dying after 300 yards every time. Just don’t use the f-word.”
“Oh you mean the Fartlek?”
“No, no, just no… that is the stupidest word since Fährfefnügen, or Früsenglaäse or Hüsker Dü or Verrückt…”
“Fartlek! There! I said it, you northern, Adirondack beast! Take me! Right here! I hate men my own age, they are pathetic! They play Rokemon Go and fantasy sports and some X-Blox crap. I need a real man. You’ll be dead soon so you can take advantage of an opportunity with a young woman like me, kind of like a mosquito at the end of summer. You’ve f@&$ed me like seven times already. It’s OK, your readers know. By the way my dad is coming in from the Islands, he’s like much younger than you. I haven’t told him how you’ve been pawing me, drooling on me, violating me in every possible place in every possible disgusting way. I am literally full of your spermatozoa in every orifice. I’m sticky everywhere. I feel so dirty, so used, my god it is so HOT! TAKE ME YOU ANCIENT FREAK!”
“OK, meet me at the track tomorrow night.”
“OK Yankee, I’ll be there.”
Peace be the Botendaddy